AFRO SYNTHETIC : RENT

RENT

At sunrise, Wambui rode a rundown levitating metal bus that was uninspiraringly called Levibus. In the distance, most of the buildings looked grand in scale but once you were upclose you could easily feel the grime and murky nature neglected by people who were distracted and lost behind cheap visors or simple masks that filtered the gritty air. Drone-carts sold artificial grains and lab-grown fruit to those who could afford them. The rest dug through plastic bins for scraps. The new Kenya had promised clean energy, safe homes, and fast cures. Instead, it only offered modern chains and new ways to sell one’s self.

From inside the Levibus Wambui passed through the tall buildings every now and then distracted by a hum, a hum that almost feels like the soundtrack to the city, the hum of security drones hovering overhead with their red eyes constantly watching. One hovers next to Wambui, scans her and for a beat Wambui questions why it is keeping pace with the Levibus just to scan her but after a beat the hum fades away and moves on to continue its work. And Wambui can go back to her lost stares of the city, in the see of holographic billboards that occupy her glance she spotted one that she knew too well. A luxury commercial broadcasting the latest enhancements: neural implants, synthetic limbs, memories on demand. And most of all, everyone could afford it. Wambui scoffed at the irony.

Wambui walked up to the entrance to the gated estate, she showed her wrist tattoo to a guard. He waved her through without a word. Inside, the green of the hedges and the grass, was brighter, more saturated but not grimey. No, with that price tag it was tailored and textured enough to feel fresh and full of pop, all fake, but polished enough for anyone to accept as real. Well-trimmed hedges and hovering lanterns framed the quiet paths. Wambui takes in the artifical gust of wind. Refreshing. Fake but better than the outside.

She stepped into the beautiful lush house. Walls of high end art work and at the far end a huge picture of Mama Nasra, with her distinct royal African wear with all the gold accesories, gold that had already been mined into extinction. Wambui ignores it all and heads straight to a white chamber close to the entrance. Inside was a single couch and by it's side was the device. Small and light but heavy for Wambui as she knows this is her gateway to her daily wage. This is how she let Mama Nasra take control.

Wambui lay down on the couch. She pressed a small button that aligned her spine. Then it the machine's hum comes alive. Wambui waits for it. A sharp prickiling at the base of her neck. For a moment her eyes blur. The devies reads her neural code, sperating her thoughts from her her brain. Then Wambui sinks into the warm sensation that flows through her skull. Then She drifts off, and as she did, another cord rises from the device, the connector detaches from Wambuis skull as the new one connects, and Mama Nasra’s presence floods into Wambui's mind.

For the hours that followed, Wambui’s body would be Mama Nasra’s puppet. Mam Nasra would see through Wambui's eyes and go about her day using Wambui's body for every sensation she wanted. As the hosts mind sits in the device, remembering nothing of what their body does while occupied. This was what high society paid for, to live a different life at will, to wear another human and risk no harm to their actual bodies.

Usually, Wambui woke in the same white chamber with no memory of the day, no side effects. She collected her payment, wired directly into her payment chip in her wrist through a payment disc and left. But on this day, when her mind slid back into place, a dull ache spread behind her eyes. She raises her hand notices a dark stain on her blouse. She stumbled out of the chamber. Dizzy and her head buzzing, side effects? No, No they said no side effects.

Wambui moved through the empty halls, the sun finally hits her eyes. It was the last ray of evening sunset, this was the exact time as the end of her shift but why does it all feel different. She walks to the entrance and she finds her payment disc where it always is at the end of the day, she picks it and scans it on her wrist, places her wrist on the device to receive her payment. Nothing. She tries again nothing. She feels a dizzy spell and grabs a table to steady herself, that's when she saw it. Footprints. Wet. Dark red spots of a footprint. Leading to the backdoor to the garden, she found a door to a back garden. She follows and opens to the lush garden but the only disturbance on it, was the fresh footprints disruppting the grass revealing the red earth underneath. At the edge of the small pond, a shoe floated. She reached down and lifted it. The shoe dripped something red that was not water.

Flash! Her mind spun with half-formed images. Mama Nasra crouching behind a bush. Flash! A metal in Wambui’s own hand. A man’s voice cut short. Wambui stumbles. Too much going on in her mind. No side effects?

Why did she remember anything? The deal was simple: Mama Nasra used her body, and Wambui remained blank until her return. Yet here were fragments. She felt Mama Nasra’s panic. She saw Mama Nasra’s face full of fear. Maybe Mama Nasra’s device malfunctioned? Maybe it allowed some memories through this time?

Wambui looked at her stained clothes and shivered. She followed the footprints, each step slow and careful, until she came upon a figure hidden in tall grass. It was a man, eyes open but lifeless. The ground soaked up his blood. Wambui recognized him: Mr. Otieno, from the estate committee. He oversaw deals and approved who could rent bodies. Eight months ago he had approved her, across a desk in a small office by the gate, and he was the only person on the estate who had ever asked her name. What had Mama Nasra done?

Wambui tried to decide what came next. She could flee and vanish into the city. But her body and name were known. She could talk to the authorities, but what would they believe? She had no witnesses, only a strange memory.

In the distance, she heard the all too familiar hum, the soundtrack of the city gets louder as they approach Wambui, the security drone finally comes into Wambui's eyeline. Its lights glowed at the edge of the garden wall. She had little time.

She knelt beside the dead man and whispered a short prayer. She touched his hand. Then she rose, turned, and walked back into the estate house. She searched the small white chamber for something to explain this madness. The she spots a new payment disk in a corner, she picks it and slowly places it on her wrist. And the through her payment HUD in her eyes she saw the money rush into her account. It was more money than she had ever earned.The sound of the hum grew louder and louder. Wambui stares at the amount in her account, t was more money than she had ever seen. Enough to leave the city. Enough to move her mother out of the settlement. Enough to never lie in that white chamber again. For a moment, her breathing slowed. Then she noticed the name attached to the transfer.

Then she noticed the name attached to the transfer.

DANIEL OTIENO.

The man she had left lying in the grass.

Her face drops. She snatched up the payment disc and scanned it again. The same name. The same amount.

Flash! The man shouting at her. Flash! Her hands pushing him to the ground. Flash! Blood. Flash! His limp wrist pressed against the payment disc. Wambui clutched her head. "No. No."

The hum drew closer.

Wambui turned to the rental device. There would be a record. Mama Nasra had occupied her body, and the machine would prove it. She opened the day's log and searched it, then searched it again. Her arrival was there. Her wrist scan. Her neural code. The minute she had lain down in the chamber. Where the occupant's name should have been, there was nothing.

Flash! Her own hand moving across the device, deleting something. Flash! Her own body asleep on the couch, seen from above, and a hand that was not hers placing the payment disc beside it.

Outside, the first security drone rose over the garden wall. Its red eye swept the ground, then slowly turned towards the house.

"Mama Nasra?!" Nothing. "Mama Nasra!" Her voice disappeared into the large, empty rooms.

She ran through the house, opening doors she had never been allowed through. Bedrooms, a kitchen. There were no clothes in the wardrobes and nothing on the shelves, nothing to suggest anyone had ever lived there.

Slowly, she walked back into the entrance hall, and there was the portrait. Mama Nasra in her royal African wear, gold around her neck. The face Wambui had seen every morning for months.

Then it struck her, something she had never thought to question. She had never actually met Mama Nasra. Not once. She had only ever seen her in that picture.

The hum was almost on top of the house now. Wambui looked towards the garden. The dead man. His blood on her clothes. Her footprints in the soil. His money in her account. Her wrist scanned at the gate that morning.

She looked back at the portrait.

For the first time, Wambui wondered whether Mama Nasra had ever existed.